The quest to find our one true “person” is the most common search that man-kind is driven by, but hunters have an entire different meaning of, “THE ONE”. Yes, they think love and all that ooey-gooey stuff is great. I mean when they find their human “ONE”, they have a captive audience for all of their epic hunting stories, someone obligated to lie about the size of that mediocre fish they landed, and someone to snuggle up with in their buffalo robes…Sounds pretty great, right?
 

But what I am talking about is the beast that is unaware that a drooling outdoorsman is driving, scouting, hiking, over-thinking, spying, spotting and basically hyperventilating at the mere sight of it’s presence. The outdoorsman is the ultimate stalker. Makes me kind of wonder what the outdoorsman did to me, that I didn’t know about, when he decided I was his human “ONE”… It really is a bit unsettling.
 

It is the time of year when the outdoorsmen are getting amped up for September and their excitement literally can be cut with a knife. I can sense the tension, the anxiety, the excitement, and the determination brewing when I am in their presence and they are talking about their search for “THE ONE” that they will make theirs this fall. These poor bucks and bulls have no idea that they are being stalked. They are on a green grass vacation without a worry in the world. Little do they know, there has been an imaginary target imprinted on their booty.
 

Every time the outdoorsman looks at them, all he sees is a target. I must admit, it is disturbing when he is constantly mumbling about the number antler points, big spreads, shiny coats, and big beauties. I mean, why isn’t he mumbling about my shiny hair and long legs? It is somewhat weird that when the outdoorsman looks at his new found obsession he closes his eyes and smiles...I think that when he looks at the trophy he is envisioning a successful hunt and rubbing himself all over the antlers of his love once he has conquered him. Creepy…
 

Have you ever been around a male dog when there is a female dog in heat? The male stops eating, can’t stop panting, will not stop dry humping the air, can’t sleep, and their eyes are glazed over in their quest to get lucky. This is pretty much a perfect description of the way hunters act when they are looking for “THE ONE”. Thankfully once he is lucky enough to find “THE ONE” that he deems worthy of his attentions, he become semi-normal again. And by semi-normal, I mean that he is only getting up at 5 a.m. every other morning to go and spy on his new love, he begins eating again and stops panting most of the time. Disturbingly enough, he still begins dry humping the air when he is peeping on his love through his spotting scope…His eyes stay glazed over well into hunting season until they transform into red and bloodshot with exhaustion from the endless hiking and early mornings.
 

I am not really sure if the outdoorsman is crazier in the pre-season or in the actual season. Every year, the depth of the obsession surprises me. He hides it well for a couple months, once the velvety antlers appear, the hunting monster crawls out and is in full force. This monster has found his target; he cannot and will not be stopped or distracted. He is on a mission. God help us all.
 

Kristen Berube lives a crazy, laugh-filled life with her outdoorsman husband Remi and their three camo-clad children in Missoula, Montana. A graduate of Montana State University and the Northern Alberta Institute of Technology, she loves being a mom and enjoys hiking, fishing, and camping. “Confessions of a Camo Queen: Living with an Outdoorsman” is her first book.
 

It is available for purchase at:

http://www.amazon.com/dp/1560376287/ref=tsm_1_fb_lk

Hard to believe, but I've been in Montana for over a month now. Even harder to believe, I am still in love with the scenery around here. There's always a new spot to see, always another mountain to gaze at, always another angle to see Lake McDonald. Plus, my beard is starting to grow in nicely… sorta.
 

The workload seems to be steadily increasing, more phone calls throughout the day, more to do when the phone isn't ringing, more upset customers when you can't accommodate their 300 pound uncle. But I still love the people I work with, and the environment is hand over fist better than the Army (for one thing, there's horses everywhere). By the end of the work day I'm tired and don't have a lot of energy, but I feel a sense of accomplishment, a sense that what I'm doing actually amounts to something more than just making my boss happy. Tangible results.

And oh the trails!

There's so many around here, it's hard to choose just one. I recently hiked up to Sperry Chalet, about six miles east of Lake McDonald. The same trail is used by one of our corrals on a daily basis to haul people and supplies up to the hiker's resort located atop a gorgeous view. Built in 1913, the Chalet serves as a hub for hikers along the various trails around the glacier and offers rooms, dinner, and friendly conversation.

The first time I visited the Chalet was on horseback during the company ride, days before the wranglers started taking guests up to the chalet. Before this particular ride, I'd ridden only once in about 10 years… and that was about week before when my parents came up for the Fourth. At 6.5 miles one-way, you spend about three hours in the saddle, which is tiresome for most new riders. Needless to say I was sore the next day.

The views from the Chalet are simply breathtaking. On a clear day you can see Lake McDonald, the Apgar Lookout, and several other smaller hills and mountains to the east. The best part though, mountain goats. As soon as we tied up the horses, there was a family of them wandering around the grounds, three adults and two kids. I inadvertently may have spooked them a little as I was trying to pull my phone out of my pocket to get a picture. What can I say I was excited.


After experiencing the trail by horseback, I decided the only logical thing to do is to hike up with a test load. In hindsight, this might have been a slight mistake. I've hiked longer trails with steeper climbs, but I don't remember them specifically. After being frustrated by the pictures my phone was taking, I took my good camera, and the Ridgewalker Brewing Company growler I had. I figured there might be one or two decent pictures that they might want. Total my pack weighed right around 25 pounds with about two days worth of food, three liters of water, and most of my base weight gear.
 

The first two-thirds of the trail is relatively flat, a little steep in the beginning but then levels out for the next two or three miles.

Then the fun starts. The first serious switchback starts at mile 4 and slowly gets steeper until about mile 6.25. If you combine Stairway to Heaven and Highway to Hell into one song, the music video could and should be filmed along this trail. It's absolutely gorgeous, but it's hard to catch your breath. I'm still not sure if it was the views or the hike that took my breath away.

I hiked the first four miles in about an hour, and the last two in about the same time. Of the 3,300 feet in elevation gain, 2,000 are in the last two miles and you feel every step. You feel each step even more when you realize you forgot to put a memory card in your camera.

 

But the view from the top made it all worth it… that and the lunch at the Chalet. Not the least bit decadent, the soups and sandwiches at the top of the trail hit the spot.
 

The real treat of the Chalet is the people who work there. Those in the dining room, always with a  smile, always with a kind word or friendly conversation. It's truly inspiring to see a group of people who love what they do, love helping people, and sacrifice so much to make others' trips to the wilderness that much more enjoyable.
 

People might say, of course they love their job, look at where they work. To which I would reply, look at where they work. There's no cell service, no roads, no cars, no medical facility, limited human contact. The only people you can be yourself around are the same people you have to work with, the same people you see day in and day out. In a lot of ways they are sacrificing so much for so little. They simply love to see other people smile.
 

It is one of the most beautiful things I've seen since I've moved here, and I continually see it in the people I work with and the people I see. Montana may truly be the whole package.
 

Keep your feet moving

Army Veteran, outdoor enthusiast, writer, and world traveler. This blog will give a small glimpse into my travels, experiences, and insights while hiking through the West Glacier Mountains, thru hiking the Te Araroa in New Zealand and wherever life decides to take me. 

Art is freedom to make a choice. Art is making the choice not to satisfy this person or that person, but to be able to make a choice to satisfy your own volition.
 

At 66, Dale Robertson, of Fort Benton, has made the decision to follow his whims as a horseshoe sculptor.
 

“I’ve always wanted to be an artist,” said Robertson. “I could’ve been doing it 40 years ago.” Yet life is certainly what happens as we are making other arrangements, daydreaming about the future, locked in the mental crater of the past. Choice often remains an elusive beast. But it is always the present that dictates – and Robertson’s notifies him it is the right time.

Born in Stanford, Montana (population 769, in 2010) Robertson made an effort at agriculture but times were so lean that he nearly went broke; he recalls a time when his finances were so sparse that he sold cribbage boards of elk bone to hold the imp of poverty at bay. Robertson served in the Navy for four years and after apprenticing under a noted cobbler, he tried his luck at shoe repair.
 

“I nearly starved fixing shoes,” said Robertson. “It was familiar because years earlier, I nearly starved running 1,100 acres of land, which was half wheat, and the other half cows and pigs. It was just too tiny of an operation.”
 

Robertson moved to Fort Benton in 1982 and he eventually took perhaps the most sensible route to solvency, joining the Choteau County Road Department. After retiring in 2015 with 18 years of service to his credit, Robertson revisited the magic space of art and insight.
 

He started sculpting small metal cowboys, and then he experimented with building furniture, and then after that he tried welding animals of metal pipe scraps. Eventually, he found several well-rusted horseshoes lying on the garage floor. It’s funny how a seemingly insurmountable issue such as low self-confidence can evaporate when you show up and try.

“I didn’t know I could do it; you don’t know it until you try. They may not be as pretty or as perfect as a lot of other people’s art, but they are not doing horseshoes. You start with the feet and go up, you build one leg, build the other, connect them, and go back and forth. I’ve gotten better with practice and I’m getting close to the real deal. I’ll run my hand over the metal and if it’s a horse sculpture, I have to have it feel like a horse.”
 

In that same garage, Robertson stands adjacent to small buckets and fatter tubs of horseshoes of every degree of tarnish. In one corner, there are barrels of horseshoes donated from a horseshoer in Fairfield. “They are a godsend,” said Robertson. “People are hoarding them now as souvenirs or decorations.”
 

Step one is that the majority of the horseshoes need to be stripped of pesky nails. In a crevice below a workbench, they are then sorted into buckets of clean, or nail-free, shoes, which are then tumbled for a couple of hours to shake off the rust. The horseshoes are tossed in a cement mixer with small chunks of gravel; the gravel acts like a polisher.
 

“I spend hours in here,” said Robertson. “I listen to music and go do it. I could spend the whole day here. Except in the summer, it gets too hot, it can be miserable. Who wants to be in the garage? My heart’s just not in it. But I am a guy who needs to be busy all of the time.”

Robertson’s tools are minimal: a two burner propane forge, a vice to bend metal, a plasma cutter, a wire welder. Minimal is not to be confused with simple or lethargic, as the forge splatters sparks and emits fire.

“There are times when I can feel my shirt getting warmer and warmer,” said Robertson. “When you are working with hot horseshoes, you won’t forget to put your gloves on.” Robertson’s horseshoe sculptures, some of which exceed ten feet in height, require the welding of hundreds of pieces. One moose, darkened with a durable undercoat varnish, required 700 shoes.
 

The delivery of that sculpture to the town of Monarch became, literally, a delicate balancing act. “I had to drive 45 to keep it from flying off the trailer,” said Robertson. Robertson has an admiration for the welding process, especially the fact that no situation exists that he can’t get his artwork out of. Nothing is unbreakable; everything is subject to re-fix.

“With welding, you think you are doing a good job and then you find a spot where you’ve messed up. You try to fix it sometimes and it gets worse. The fun part is that you grab a big hammer and it doesn’t hurt a thing when you take to it. I had a sculpture that the hind quarter wasn’t right, so I took it back. I can cut them up and start over. I took it back and started over – just needed a cutter and acetylene torch.”
 

Peering into one of the larger installations, one can see the curves and muscles and the action of the animal. Indeed, Robertson is a skillful synthesizer who has created a small legion of inventory to choose from and enjoy.

“Everyone is an artist,” said Robertson. “Though, it’s a tough field. I see it this way: if I enjoy it and you enjoy it, well, that makes it better.” Robertson generally sticks to the fabrication of bulls and horses, though he talks of expanding into other less conventional forms. “I like cowboy things,” said Robertson. “I’m a cowboy. Personally, I’m pretty much an elk and deer kind of guy.”
 

There are several words that Robertson uses frequently in this conversation: choice, freedom, happiness. But there’s also desire. The artist in Robertson wants it because he wants it. “This will be around a long time after I’m gone,” said Robertson. “It’ll be nice to leave a legacy instead of nothing.”
 

There is something pure, talented, exciting and folksy about Robertson’s sculptures; when viewed standing together in the front yard of his home, it’s easy to envision the assembly of a folk art park to be enjoyed for generations. Indeed, many cars already travel down the dusty stretch of road to examine the metal-ring stallions, bears and moose.
 

 “Now if someone drives by, I just sit in the kitchen and I watch them,” said Robertson. “I don’t go out there, just let them look. There were a couple of times I might have scared them off when I came out. I thought, ‘well, that’s too bad,’ because I just wanted to tell them about them.”